An Anarchid Poem by Norman F. Santos

Every night, in the ubiquity of baleful shadows
I would muse on the latencies of the latticing windows
Where the svelte prisms from silver lines fashion a show
Scintillated by the frangible cradle of sorrows
Sewn by an artisan’s sinewy legs of barrow

Catching with open fists is a dangling silver castle
Of my friend’s glacial threads ornately tousled
Architected to assemble a suffice cradle
For the surfeit weight of the pensive hurtles
Of the prostate toil to fabricate a citadel

The superfluity and alacrity of his lissome hands
Consoles the vales of the bigoted reprimands
That I maze upon the eloquently soigné garlands
As he surly struck every searing strand
Sepulchral quiescence grazes to stand

Behind the blinds, as the preposterous night conspires
I’ll lie alongside, ailed by the night’s slicing wanton smiles
To watch my arachnid friend constantly vie
Spinning and spinning the sangfroid web to die
And molt to live again, rived in six of his eyes

I envy a lot the grand rendezvous of my spider friend
At night without fail, he asserts existence with the lynch cords he fend
By daylight, sequestered from fate, he conceals from the sun’s descend
While I’m riveted on my bedroom window, perhaps, his other end,
Scavenging in the affable silhouettes his webs commend